


under wraps

by pheenick



Series: a light dusting of snow [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Listen. It may make sense, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Pre-Relationship, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheenick/pseuds/pheenick
Summary: “Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” Aziraphale had said, eyes fluttering like a firefly trapped in a bottle. On the rare occasion their eyes met through the dark film of glass, lightning crackled ominously in between the layers of his skin.Or, they haverules. None of them are written, but all of them they understand...all of them theyshouldunderstand.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: a light dusting of snow [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564759
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	under wraps

**Author's Note:**

> Written for _Day 13: Wrapping Paper_ from the [Advent Calendar 2019](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294) by [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight/pseuds/drawlight) !

The Thermos sits in his safe for years. Locked behind thousands of tonnes of steel compressed into three-inch-thick walls and a demon’s indomitable will to keep it secret. Lead coats the inside to keep any humans with supernatural vision from peeking into demonic affairs and a pencil-thin smile dutifully keeps the denizens of Hell out of his box.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” Aziraphale had said, eyes fluttering like a firefly trapped in a bottle. On the rare occasion their eyes met through the dark film of glass, lightning crackled ominously in between the layers of his skin.

Said: Better not. Not now. Another time, dear boy. Too. _Fast_.

A growl burrows back down his throat and Crowley ejects himself from his throne. He paces around his desk, arms flung somewhere carelessly and legs tossed underneath his weight. He walks. Wearing down the familiar groove even further and clogging his snakeskin boots with molten bits of concrete.

He stands before the sketch. Again. Two times. Three times. Every single time he completes the circuit and every time he storms in here in a huff after a disastrous evening with Aziraphale or a perfectly marvellous afternoon.

Her smile—yes, her _smile_. Never felt comfortable with it always hanging around behind his back. Watching him, eyes following him around and never resting even when Crowley scurries into other parts of his flat. 

Crowley pulls aside the picture frame. He does that often. Pretty much every time he ends up in front of the sketch because he needs to know. Check on it, like one does when they’ve got a pie in the oven. Just have a look-see, it won’t harm anyone. He should know, he’s the one who got that trend started. 

And beyond that—what if he forgets the combination? It’ll always be there, nestled amongst the rest of the little tricky latches and loops and locks humans love to come up with to keep people like him out but he’ll need to fish it out quick. Who knows how long he’ll have when he finally runs out of time? 

So he commits the combination to memory with every turn. To the point where he can recite the clicking of the metal wheel beat for beat and turn the dial with uncanny precision with his eyes closed. 

( _“Angel,” Crowley says, curled fist pushing into his cheek as he leans more and more sideways with every passing second. “Angellll.”_

_A few snaps. A few more calls of the name. Aziraphale’s head remains stubbornly down, shoulders bunched up and little dinky glasses on the very precipice of his nose. A smile plays tenderly on the corners of his lips, softening his six thousand year lifespan by a generous three centuries._

_“Angel, we’re going to be late,” Crowley tries, even though it’s a lie. Not that it’ll matter for occult beings like them. “Our reservation’s for six-thirty. It’s going to be Heaven on earth with all that ice out there.”_

_“In a minute,” Aziraphale says absently and it easily turns into fifteen. Thirty._ Forty-five _. Crowley calls out again and then feels his stomach slingshot into his throat because suddenly Aziraphale is moving. Putting his little tools down and freeing his fingers from his gloves. He pulls his glasses off and folds them into a pocket that doesn’t matter because now Aziraphale is_ staring _at him. Giving him the full weight of his attention, bright blue gaze like a gaslit flame._

 _It’s a moment between a moment, spliced in there before Aziraphale can remember who he is, who they both are. Something infinitely intimate and rare, fading faster the longer Crowley stares._ )

Crowley opens his eyes. Let’s go of the dial and watches as it slowly slides back into place. As it always will, until he actually needs it. He hasn’t seen the Thermos in decades, but he knows what it looks like. It’s been seared into his fingertips and he’ll know the pattern by touch alone. Every line of colour, every square.

He pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head and drags his fingers through to pull out a few tufts and strands to artful taste. And then he scrambles it, tossing his glasses off somewhere into the abyss.

He deflates back onto his throne, feet crossing on the edge of his desk.

Leonardo got it right then. _Apart from you, who’s going to see it?*_

Aziraphale leaves a message on his ansaphone.

“Do call back, my dear,” he says, voice scratched by static. “You bolted out of my bookshop so fast you forgot your present. I know neither of us participates in this particular brand of festivity, but, well, you did start it with that lovely edition you ‘ _just so happened to find_ ’. It’s only fair.”

A few sounds. Something like fingers running over a crease of paper, crinkling it ever so slightly. Crowley can almost taste the disproportionately frivolous bow with many cascading loops puffing on top. “I’ve managed to move our reservation to this evening. Strangest thing, darling. Apparently, we never had one. But anyway, if you’ll kindly meet me at my shop at half-past five, perhaps we can go out for a stroll before dinner. Catch-up. Feed the—oh, I suppose they’re quite a ways away. But my offer still stands.” Aziraphale pauses to breathe and Crowley forgets how to. “Goodbye, then. For now. I’ll be here when you need me.”

A click. A beep. It starts from the beginning and Crowley is back on his feet, already dragging his steps back through the cycle again.

**Author's Note:**

> * - The _Apart from you, who’s going to see it?_ bit is lifted straight from the book.
> 
> Ah, I do enjoy pain.
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://pheenick.tumblr.com/) where I sometimes do things.


End file.
